Cop, Enforcer and Profiler, Mastermind
by Quantum Reality
Summary: In Cause of Death, Mal Fallon and Natara Williams are a brilliant and effective couple, as police partners and more. But what if they, and people around them, had made slightly different decisions?
1. Chapter 1

A couple quick notes before I begin! This is actually co-authored with my good 'net friend Ayala Atreides, who has also posted CoD fanfic. In fact, she got me into CoD in the first place! :D This kind of all got started when I got to thinking of the Genevieve Collins storyline and her eerily accurate diagnosis of Natara, in particular. Thus, this story.

Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is not intended for personal profit. All the Cause of Death canonical characters used in this fan fic are the property of Electronic Arts and/or other designated copyright and/or trademark holders.

**Chapter 1: Different Decisions**

* * *

Mal Fallon stood woodenly, staring out of the window in Chief Yeong's office as she, along with the Internal Affairs head, waited for a response.

Finally, after he decided there was no point to making them wait any longer, he shrugged. "Do what you will."

"Mal, I'm only going to say this once, so listen, and listen well." Maria's voice was brusque and her words were clipped. "I am offering you _one_ chance to leave the Force without your entire career being ruined on the front page of every newspaper in this city. You resign here, now, in my office, and that's it. You lose your pension and any severance pay, but you gain – perhaps – some sense of self-respect you still have."

The IAB head took over. "We've got enough here to try you, you know. Witness tampering, bribery, evidence tampering – the list goes on."

"So prove it." Mal smirked.

He sighed. "Fallon, who do you think rolled over on you? Your old partner, Ken. He'll testify against you if we bring it to trial. But I don't think either you, nor we, want the publicity of a trial. So do us all a favor and just resign and walk into the wind."

Mal snorted derisively. "Ken, huh? So much for that thin blue line! Think his character will hold up in court when my lawyer brings up some of his more... aggressive moments with suspects? Or that little fling he had with that Data Analyst?"

"All of those things have been properly documented, and you damned well know it," Maria told him sternly. "You're grasping, Fallon. You know we've got you cold. You might as well make this easy on yourself."

Mal bristled at that, fists clenching... but he already knew they were right. His eyes went from the IAB head to Maria, back and forth between them. That stare had helped crack more suspects than he could count, but his superiors didn't even flinch. His gaze locked on Maria and she stared right back at him, her chin held level, her eyes stone-cold.

Mal pulled his badge out, studying it for a moment as the fury drained out of him, replaced by a grim sense of defeat. He watched the overhead fluorescent lights glint off the metal of the badge, and then shook his head.

With that, Malachi Charles Fallon picked up the pen on the chief's desk, and scribbled out his resignation. He threw his badge across the desk (his service revolver had already been 'requested' earlier that day by the IAB), and turned around, stalking out of Yeong's office, never to return.

.oO[CoDCoD]Oo.

Natara Williams stared, aghast, as William Blaire lowered the boom on her.

District Chief Blaire stared over his glasses at her. "I don't care how you justify this. You shot _through_ your partner to kill a suspect after having barged into that building without calling for backup. You made no attempt to de-escalate the situation—"

As soon as Natara opened her mouth, he held up his hand. "Don't bother me with your profiling. It's not gonna amount to a hill of beans if this ever goes to trial for involuntary manslaughter."

"But sir, I made a justifiable shoot!" Natara retorted. "Had I _not_ shot, it is very likely the suspect would have killed several more people in the time it would have taken backup to arrive."

Blaire heaved a sigh and clasped his hands in front of him as he rested his arms on his desk. "You're a good agent, but you just can't play God like this. Had Agent Mallory moved even an inch to one side or the other—"

Natara gulped. "I understand, sir. Will he…?"

"We don't know. He's in preparation for some delicate surgery. He may walk again, or he may not. We just can't know, Agent Williams.

"And this brings me to you. You've been here for almost six years. You're experienced enough to know what to do and when to do it. That's why it's all the worse that you made, in my opinion, a reckless decision. I'm sorry, but I think the time has come for me to ask for your resignation."

Natara breathed, "_No_." She looked at the Chief with wide eyes. "Please, put me on suspension, but for God's sake, don't – don't make me resign!"

"I don't see that I have a choice. My superiors are asking me what the hell I'm doing – if I even have control over this office! It just doesn't look good, letting two agents run into a highly volatile situation without backup and without apparent de-escalation." He fiddled with a pen on his desk. "I'm sorry. I really am. Look, I'll authorize two months of suspension pay plus severance. All right?"

Natara stood up, primed to let loose a torrent of rage and desperation at the Chief. This job was everything she had ever wanted... her decision to take it had put a rift in her family, one she wasn't sure she could ever repair. How could this man take that away from her?!

But then she pulled herself back. A lifetime of her father's teachings took over, making her force her anger down, pushed behind a calm, cool mask. Bile rose in her throat as she forced herself to stand rigidly, politely saying, "Of course, sir. I understand."

Outside the FBI building, Natara stopped dead in her tracks on the sidewalk, pressing her knuckles tightly to her temples. How could this have happened? She had made the right call... hadn't she? No, she had to believe she'd called it right. And yet, the Chief had taken it all away from her... all that she had worked so hard to get...

Natara Williams whirled around to glare up at the towering edifice looming above her. Her eyes narrowed in a hateful glare, and cold fury boiled inside her heart. She balled her hands into tight fists and spun on her heel, striding away.

* * *

**Author Notes:** Stay tuned! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is not intended for personal profit. All the Cause of Death canonical characters used in this fan fic are the property of Electronic Arts and/or other designated copyright and/or trademark holders.

**Chapter 2: Moving On**

* * *

Natara Williams sat in her apartment alone.

The only light in the room was from Natara's desk lamp, shining down on a blank piece of paper. She fiddled with her pen, trying and discarding plan after plan. She couldn't get reinstated in the FBI. She was unlikely to find a career in any other law enforcement capacity. Everything else she could think of seemed like a dead end or a total waste of her skills.

Schoolteacher? She couldn't stomach the thought of riding herd on hyperactive children or hormonal teenagers.

Practicing psychologist? She didn't really feel like sitting in a chair, guiding patient after patient through slowly paced progress to function in society.

Quite simply, she was at loose ends, and when she was at loose ends, it made no sense to write down any kind of coherent plan for her future. She missed the _action_, the _excitement_, the pressure of racing against the clock and outsmarting any criminal who was foolish enough to get on the FBI's radar. Nothing else, she felt, would come close to those exciting months in Quantico and then as a profiler.

The trilling of her phone distracted her. She yanked it out of the cradle and looked at the caller ID. She blinked, then put the phone to her ear.

"_Neha?!_" she blurted.

Her sister giggled. "Who else would it be, Nat? Listen, I thought I should call you, 'cause I'm having a _great_ time down here in L.A.! This cute boy says he writes scripts for that hit TV show, you know, the one with the high school teacher who makes drugs."

"Huh," muttered Natara. Privately she wondered if the guy was telling the truth at all.

Neha replied, "Hey. You seem down. Everything okay over there?"

Natara remembered the best way to lie was to act all the emotions out. She smiled falsely to the phone and, as though she had just been through a challenging all-hands meeting about a high-profile killer, said, "Oh, absolutely! I'm just a little tired. Got called in by the D.C. police to observe a suspect."

"Sounds boring," said Neha. Her voice grew faint as she bellowed, "Listen! I'm staying at the Hilton. Gotta go, Greg wants to dance!"

The phone beeped in Natara's ear as Neha ended the call.

_California._

The thought gripped Natara as she grabbed her laptop and began flipping through old e-mails. Hadn't Shawn mentioned something about a month before—?

Yes, he had! Her eyes landed on e-mail message with the "P.S." which invited her to drink with him the day she had been due to give evidence at trial. After she'd left the courtroom, Shawn had taken her for drinks at a nice bar. Just after sipping his wine, he had casually mentioned something.

_"Say, Natara, I was talking to someone in the FBI field office in San Francisco, a man named Don. Must've been a slow week there, because after I followed up on a records transfer request Don started giving me a little gossip through the grapevine. Seems one of the top cops over at the SFPD resigned suddenly."_

_Natara had raised her eyebrow. Her curiosity, though, warred with her lack of interest in anything related to law enforcement right then. "Look, Shawn, I've had an intense cross-examination and the last thing I want to do is talk shop. Can we change the subject?"_

Natara thought it over. She had to admit to herself, the thought of meeting a kindred spirit (in a sense) would be nice, but the chances of meeting such a person seemed unlikely.

Still…

Natara Williams had nothing left to lose by going to San Francisco. As a bonus, it wasn't too far from L.A. if Neha really wanted her to visit, but she'd be far enough away that Neha couldn't drag her out partying every weekend.

Without further ado, she found some boxes and began sorting through her things, deciding what to keep and what to take.

.oO[CoDCoD]Oo.

Malachi Fallon sat in his apartment alone.

He'd been divorced from Sandra for about three months and he had no current girlfriend. Still, thought Mal sourly, Sandra wouldn't have wanted to be associated with a "dirty cop" and would probably have had divorce papers in front of him the minute he left the SFPD headquarters and told her what had happened.

Seeing as he needed to pay the bills, he had launched straight into finding some kind of job related to what he used to do. But he had struck out on interview after interview. He'd gone to every security company (it seemed) in San Francisco.

They all expressed interest initially, but invariably he would either never get a follow-up, or he'd get a polite call-back. The latest message on his answering machine was yet another example of such. No mystery why: a lot of security guys were ex-cops, and they had a grapevine, too.

_"Mister Fallon, this is Frederick Davis from Vann Securicorp. I'm calling to express my regrets; you were a promising candidate for the head security officer position, but we've found a more suitable person for the job. Best of luck in the future." **Beep.**_

He let his breath out in a huff and shifted in his chair. The television blared meaninglessly in his ear as he remembered how it had seemed so easy, just once, to lean on a suspect just a little bit. Ken had been fine with it at first…

_Ken had knocked at the door of the interrogation room. "Say, Mal, I gotta get a coffee. Want some?"_

_Mal had nodded. "Sure. Might wanna get another one for Mister, uh, Dillbag here."_

_"That's Dickson to you, pig!" the man spat._

_Mal rolled his eyes at Ken. "See what kinda company I've got? Skip the coffee for this fella, then."_

_Ken had winked and left._

Mal had yanked the camera cable in a way that would look like it had fallen out. When Ken came back, he put on an air of exaggerated surprise and said, "Well, look there. Cable went and fell out, huh?"

Mal had also gotten his confession in the meantime.

It hadn't taken long to decide taking the easy way was better. Somewhere along the way, though, Ken had apparently chickened out and 'fessed up to the Chief.

"Bah. Partners like that? Don't need 'em," Mal said to the empty room. He sighed and picked up the newspaper from the side table. He flipped it open, and saw the ad for a building security guard for 345 California Center. Deciding _something_ was better than nothing, he swallowed his pride at the notion of putting on a uniform again, and called the number given to leave a message.

* * *

**Author Notes:** Hopefully y'all have liked this. I'd like to again extend my thanks to Ayala, my coauthor, for helping with the chapter title and vetting this chapter. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is not intended for personal profit. All the Cause of Death canonical characters used in this fan fic are the property of Electronic Arts and/or other designated copyright and/or trademark holders.

**Chapter 3: As One Door Closes**

* * *

To his surprise, Mal got called back the morning after. He had left his name and phone number, so anyone running even a cursory background check would have picked up his SFPD career.

The man's voice over the phone had said, "Mr. Fallon, this is Gary Jackson, Head of Building Security at 345 California Center. When can you come in for an interview?"

Mal responded, "ASAP, Mr. Jackson."

He heard the man chuckle through the receiver. "Well, it won't need to be quite that soon, but my schedule's pretty open today. Why don't you come down around eleven o'clock for an interview?"

"Done."

After the call ended, Mal looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock in the morning, so he wasted no time in getting ready for the day. Thankfully, he had had a good suit dry-cleaned about two months before; it was still in the plastic wrap, even.

He paused to look in the mirror and checked that his tie was straight. He shook his head and laughed ruefully. Here he was, putting on his good suit and tie and shoes for what – night watchman, wearing some dumb uniform, making nine bucks an hour for the rest of his life?

_How the mighty do fall,_ he thought.

But a job was a job, and Mal Fallon knew he didn't have much of a choice.

.oO[CoDCoD]Oo.

Mal strode briskly into the elegant office tower and made his way past hotel guests, office workers, and the occasional delivery driver bringing a package to someone. He was looking for the security office, and after getting a sense of how the ground floor was laid out, found the door with SECURITY imprinted on it.

Inside was a young man in a suit, seated behind a desk. Mal had stepped into what was obviously a reception area: some chairs and a water cooler were placed against the wall opposite the man's desk, making a waiting area, and the desk was so situated that Mal couldn't go past it except between it and an ornamental cactus plant. Behind the desk was a hallway that led to several other offices. Mal assumed their observation HQ would be behind one of the doors.

He looked at the name plate on the young man's desk. It simply read RECEPTION. He said, "Hi. I'm here for an interview with Mr. Gary Jackson."

"Of course. Your name?"

"Mal Fallon. He'll know who I am; he called me this morning and asked me to come in for the job interview for night security." Mal remained standing near the desk. He might not be a cop anymore, but he still knew all the tricks to not let the other guy think you were a pushover.

The man reached for his phone and dialed a number. "Yes. Gary? A Mal Fallon here to see you … okay, I will." He stood and said, "Come with me."

As Mal circled around the desk and joined the young man, he could see the nameplate on his suit read RANDY.

"So, Randy. They make you wear that so you don't scare the hotel guests?"

Randy chuckled. "Yeah. P.R. people are more comfortable if they can put a name to the person they're pouring out their troubles to." He shrugged. "It's mostly an easy job. Stay at the desk, make sure nobody comes in who isn't supposed to be in, deal with the occasional person who forgot their access pass, stuff like that."

Mal sized the guy up. "You play a little football in school?"

"Some, yeah." Randy frowned. "How'd you guess?"

"Must be my keen powers of observation." Mal grinned, and he saw Randy smile just a bit.

They had been walking down the corridor. Randy gestured as they reached a T intersection. Mal could see more doors down each arm of the T, and the door which faced the hallway they had just come down. That door was marked "GARY JACKSON, Security Head".

Randy knocked briefly and said, "I've brought him."

A muffled "Go ahead" could be heard through the door. Randy gestured for Mal to go in and briskly walked back the way he came.

The office was large but comfortable. A heavyset, muscular-looking older man was at a wide oak desk. Mal's brain automatically began running through a physical description, as if he were still assessing suspects for cases: white male, brown hair, uncertain eye color – probably hazel or brown, about six feet tall, approximately two hundred pounds, late thirties or early forties, no other identifying features or marks.

The man at the desk signed a report in front of him and then pushed it aside. He stood up, his hand extended. "Hi! Gary Jackson."

"Mal Fallon. Pleased to be here." He extended his hand, and felt the other man's strength through the handshake.

Gary smiled. "Good. Have a seat there, huh?"

Both men took seats, Mal taking one of the two comfortable chairs opposite Gary, who sat back down behind his desk.

Gary continued. "All right, so to get some preliminaries about this interview out of the way, you should know I ran a background check as soon as I caught your name. Now it seems you resigned at kind of an … odd time? I kind of asked around and it seems you left just before you could wrap up the Freezer Case at the SFPD. You want to tell me anything about that?"

"I left for personal reasons. That's it," Mal replied in clipped tones.

Gary shrugged. "All right. Well, as far as I'm concerned, you'd pass a background check. Fair enough. You should know we work security not just for the offices, but also the hotel up top. So as you can appreciate, there are more delicate situations, given the necessarily twenty-four-hour operation of a hotel, than would be typical of night security watch."

Mal replied, "So don't get in the way of a guy and his 'girlfriend', and if someone's wandering around drunk, try to get them to their room quietly. If a guy's so-called girlfriend is outside his room and angrily wants back in, get 'em away from there. And if someone's obviously wandering around trying to slip into rooms that aren't theirs, offer to check which room they're registered in and if they stick around, they're legit. If not, they'll take off."

"The idea being, of course, to convince someone who shouldn't be around to go quietly rather than make a scene." Gary nodded. "I like that. Good sense of discretion."

Mal decided he liked his chances, and asked, "So besides night patrol, what other regular duties would you be expecting from me?"

Gary ran his hand through his still-thick brown hair, and leaned back in his chair. "Well, it's pretty much routine building patrols, checking office doors to make sure they're closed and locked, discreetly dealing with the occasional hooker who makes a scene, making sure nobody's trying to break into hotel rooms, that kind of thing.

"Honestly, though, I'm pretty sold on you right now. You're an ex-cop, so you know how to spot shady folks and aren't going to freeze up in situations that need an immediate response. Job's going to be kind of basic compared to chasing psycho axe murderers, though." Gary chuckled.

Mal smiled. "That's true. If you'll take me, I can start work right away."

"Great!" Gary reached across his desk and shook hands. "Welcome to building security for 345 California Center."

So now Malachi Fallon had a job. But given how easily Gary had skated over his troubled resignation from the Force, Mal suspected he'd be having to look a gift horse in the mouth pretty soon.

.oO[CoDCoD]Oo.

Mal had been used to shift work as a cop, but having to work graveyard shifts all the time (being low man on the totem pole) was surprisingly hard on him. He would leave work at seven in the morning, be home by about 7:30, and be just bone-tired enough to not want to leave the house, but not tired enough yet to sleep. But always, by around eleven, his eyes would droop one too many times while watching TV, and he'd take that as his cue to haul his ass to the bathroom and brush his teeth, then get ready for bed. Wake up at eight PM or so, get ready for the night, have a coffee and catch the news on TV, then roll in for the eleven PM shift.

Lather, rinse, repeat. The nights when his eyelids would start drooping as he walked around the building were the worst, though.

What he began noticing real quick was that while he and the other guy (named Evan, six foot four, olive skin, black hair, two hundred, athletic build) regularly scheduled for weeknights, would switch off patrolling and watching the banks of hallway cameras, Evan would always insist on taking first watch at the cameras, eleven PM to three AM.

Mal had frowned the first time he'd heard it. "Doesn't policy say we have to rotate these duties? Like, I take first watch one night and you take first watch the next?"

Evan had stood up from the chair in the semi-dark room. He was tall, even taller than Mal by a couple of inches. He was broad through the shoulders, and he looked like he hadn't been long out of high school. Probably played basketball, Mal judged. Evan then scowled down at Mal and said, "Not negotiable. You're new here, so I get first call and I say I get first watch. There gonna be a problem with that?"

Mal might never be a scholar and a diplomat, but he wasn't stupid enough to start a fight over something so seemingly trivial. He'd just shrugged, backed off, and said, "Great. I'll just relax for the last four hours before I take off to go home."

Evan had nodded brusquely. "We won't have a problem, then."

And they hadn't. Evan was always polite after that incident when they would switch off around mid-shift.

But as Gary had said, it was really, fundamentally, _boringly _routine. Floor after floor of vacant, silent, dark offices, lit only by the moonlight and streetlight, as well as the sparse, harsh fluorescent lamps that lit the elevator areas on each floor. To keep himself from getting too soft, Mal resolved to always take the stairs up and down, no matter what. Even if his footsteps reverberating up and down the concrete stairwells was more than a little creepy sometimes.

The hotel levels were a little more interesting. The first time he'd come up to the hotel level through the fire exit, he hadn't been prepared for the bright indirect lighting that lit the corridors as though it were daytime. He had stood, blinking for a couple of moments, only to be startled by a woman's giggling.

At the reception desk about twenty feet away, a slim blond woman (white, five-six, one-forty, moon earrings, no necklace or rings on fingers, wearing business casual clothing) was covering her mouth with her hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. You just looked so startled!"

Mal recovered himself, forced a smile, and walked over. "Hey. I'm one of the security guys. Mal Fallon."

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Colleen Cameron." She extended her hand, and Mal quickly shook it. She briskly said, "Now, I'm supposed to check that your earbud works if you need to check in." She indicated the small walkie-talkie sitting beside her computer.

Mal tapped his earbud once and muttered behind his hand, "Testing, testing."

The walkie-talkie crackled and his voice could be heard through it. Colleen nodded. "Great! I'll be here if you need anything, all right?"

Mal tapped his bud again to turn it off, then asked, "Anyone in particular I gotta watch out for?"

"Huh! You're on the ball for a new guy." She grinned and pointed as she cocked her eyebrow. "Ex-cop, right?"

Mal tried not to let the sudden twinge in his stomach affect him as he blandly said, "Yes, ma'am."

"I knew it. I like it when we get guys like you on shift. You always move with that sense of _purpose_." Colleen blushed. "Sorry, listen to me go on. I'd better not keep you."

"It's all right. Anyway, anyone to watch for?" he prompted.

Colleen shook her head. "Not tonight. Sometimes we get some really rich guys who come in and think they can just do whatever they want, or their bodyguards get a little too big for their britches. But tonight – no problems. See you when you come back down."

"Gotcha." Mal turned and began walking through the hotel levels, only occasionally encountering a night-owl hotel guest. Once or twice, an older man would be with an obviously younger woman, entering or leaving a room, but Mal ignored them. He wasn't a cop anymore, and busting them for solicitation was, he reflected, bound to make the hotel manager a touch annoyed with the security folks.

And that was pretty much his routine: Walk the empty offices, check desultorily for intruders, chat up Colleen for a minute or two, then walk the hotel's carpeted hallways perpetually lit in that indirect lighting, day or night. Then down to the banks of security cameras, where he would stare at TV screen after TV screen flicking between different views of the cameras on different floors.

Mal noticed that Evan would take the elevators from the ground floor (where the main security HQ room was) to the hotel reception level, chat very briefly with Colleen, then duck into the public men's restroom on that level. Mal reflected that the Big Gulp sized coffee mug Evan brought to work probably didn't help his bladder any.

After Evan left the bathroom, he'd patrol in much the same way as Mal did: up to the top floor by floor, then take the stairs back down and patrol through the office levels and meet up with Mal just after six-forty-five in the morning.

They would spend the last fifteen minutes filling in their shift incident reports, then part ways at the parkade level.

After a couple of months of this, two things happened on two consecutive nights that made Mal's life a little more interesting.

.oO[CoDCoD]Oo.

The first night, Mal was entering the hotel level, and he spotted Colleen and waved hello. He'd grown to like coming up to that floor; their conversations had gotten beyond perfunctory how-are-you's and she seemed to like seeing him come up as much as he liked seeing her at her desk.

It turned out they were scheduled on the same overnight shifts, and he'd learned quite a bit about her. She inevitably learned a bit about him, but he hadn't become an expert in questioning suspects by letting the other person know everything about you first.

Mal found out that Colleen grew up in San Francisco, went to the university in Santa Cruz, and that she was a single woman who had dated off and on over the years, but never seemed to quite settle. Among other things, she liked thai fusion and had been an avid swing dancer when she was younger.

That night, she smiled widely and said, "Hey! How's the night cop doing?"

Mal chuckled. "Can't complain, really. Things could be worse." He leaned against the counter, his arms resting on the tabletop.

"Yeah," replied Colleen.

Mal looked more closely at her, then snapped his fingers. "Hey, are those new earrings you're wearing? They're golden spirals, aren't they?"

The golden earrings shone in the light, complementing her blond hair nicely, Mal thought. He then realized her hair looked different: tonight, it had been pulled back into a ponytail. He liked the way she looked with the new style.

Colleen preened. "You noticed! My sister in New York sent them to me. It's my birthday coming up and she sent me an early present."

Mal began to notice a light, pleasant aroma with a hint of musk. He realized it was also a new perfume. Colleen's usual wasn't this noticeable.

"Really, your birthday, huh?" Mal grinned. "Would you mind if I bought you dinner? I have weekends off and it'd be nice to go out and do things like a normal person."

"I'd love dinner! Why don't you let me know tomorrow what time you want to get together? We both start Monday overnight, so either Friday evening or Saturday evening'll be the best time. We can even have a really late dinner, like nine or tennish if you want."

"Not a problem. I know a couple of good restaurants." He tried to ignore the sudden sinking feeling as he realized he couldn't take her to Rip Van Winkle's, his favorite seafood restaurant.

Grudgingly, he allowed that there were other places, anyway.

To change the subject, he said, "It'll be nice to do this. Usually I just veg and watch TV or get some grocery shopping done, but other than that…"

Colleen placed her hand on his arm. "_Tell_ me about it! I like the quiet hours, and my boss is pretty good about letting me read a book or do a little web browsing when I'm not helping customers here, but my _God_, I feel like such a hermit sometimes."

She leaned forward a little as her gaze shifted. Mal's eyes were drawn to her cleavage, now visible down her shirt. He realized too late he'd been staring and brought his eyes back up to her face as he blushed a bit. Mal groaned mentally. He wasn't in high school anymore, for God's sake! What was he doing blushing?

"It's okay, Mal." She laughed lightly and ducked her head for a moment. She looked him in the eye and put her hand on top of his. "Actually, I was kind of hoping you'd… notice me."

"Well, I like what I see, that's for sure." Mal grinned.

Colleen arched her eyebrow. "You do, do you?"

Mal nodded, his heartbeat quickening as he realized what might happen…

Colleen bit her lip, then began lifting her hand off Mal's. "I should probably—"

Mal reached out and gently snared her hand. "Seems pretty quiet tonight. How about showing me around one of the hotel rooms? Not like I've had a chance to see one yet." He looked at her steadily.

_Don't be offended, don'tbeoffended, don't…_

Colleen glanced quickly at her computer screen, then back up at him. Her nostrils flared; her pupils were dilated. She licked her lips and said in a low voice, "Room eleven-twenty-one. Down the hall, to the right."

Mal let go of her hand and nodded. He then turned and began walking, his heart thudding in his ears as he tried not to think how long it had been since he'd last been in bed with a woman. He hoped to God Evan downstairs wouldn't say anything about the camera feed; that said, he knew the odds were somewhat in his favor, since there were only so many TV screens compared to the number of cameras in the building.

He rounded the corner, found the door which read 1121, yanked his all-access card out of his suit pocket and then swiped it through the maglock. It clicked obligingly, and the red indicator switched to green. He cracked the door and reached inside to flip the light switch, then cautiously swung the door open all the way.

The room was empty. He let the door swing shut behind him, and checked the room out: the short hallway had a door which led to a bathroom, and it opened to a larger room with one double bed, a small kitchenette, minibar – your basic hotel room for a businessman on a tight schedule who spends most of his time out of the room, not in it.

The click of the latch startled Mal; he whipped around, then relaxed as Colleen stepped inside and locked the door. Her skirt flattered her legs, and she wore shiny black high-heeled pumps.

Colleen kicked off her shoes and strode up to Mal, reaching up for his suit lapels. She pulled him against her and tilted her face up a bit to kiss him. He tilted his head down, accepting the kiss, tentatively at first; then the kiss deepened. He reached out, holding her hips as she in turn reached up for his shoulders, holding him for balance as she slowly withdrew from their kiss.

"I want you, Mal," she said huskily.

"And I want _you_," said Mal.

It was times like this Mal was thankful he still kept a condom on his person.

.oO[CoDCoD]Oo.

Mal had taken a very quick shower, and was putting his clothes back on. "Sorry it was so… y'know, quick this time." He looked at Colleen apologetically. She was lying on the bed, relaxing.

Colleen waved it off and lifted her head to check the clock beside the bed. "Don't worry about it. Actually, it's good that way, because we've already been about twenty minutes in here and that's kind of on the long side to have a bathroom break." She smirked. "Besides, you can show me a _much _better time after that birthday dinner you're buying me, hmm?"

Mal grinned. "It's a date."

"Okay. We can do dinner, then go back to my place."

"Will do." Mal asked, "You going to stay in here?"

Colleen nodded. "I need to get in the shower real quick myself. It's better if we're not both seen leaving this room at the exact same time, anyway."

"Yeah. Hotels must do this to people, I bet."

Colleen laughed and sat up. "Oh, you would not _believe_ some of the stories I could tell! But later. You need to skedaddle."

Mal nodded and left the room, his suit exactly as he'd worn it before and not a hair out of place on his head. Back downstairs at their changeover time, Evan said nothing, from which Mal deduced he either had a really good poker face, or he legitimately hadn't seen his and Colleen's little get-together session.

That night's activities put a spring in his step as he went home, but the next night proved to be a lot less entertaining for one Mal Fallon.

* * *

**Author Notes:** I'd like to again extend my thanks to Ayala, my coauthor, for helping with the chapter title and in particular for catching some errors in flow in this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is not intended for personal profit. All the Cause of Death canonical characters used in this fan fic are the property of Electronic Arts and/or other designated copyright and/or trademark holders.

**Chapter 4: Another Door Opens**

* * *

It had been such an ordinary night to start with.

Mal had shown up at ten minutes before eleven. He was making small talk with the evening shift security guys when he saw Evan walk in. He seemed a little preoccupied as he set his coffee cup on the long table that ran the length of the banks of TV screens.

Mal decided to wrap things up. "Any incidents we need to follow up on?"

The heavyset swing shift security man, whose name tag read TRAVIS GREEN, shrugged and looked at his partner, a wiry man named Francis Wilder. Francis pursed his lips. "There's someone working late in the import-export office a floor below the hotel. I think they've left by now, but just double-check nobody's left any doors unlocked. That's pretty much it."

Mal nodded, as did Evan. The swing shift guys left, saying their goodbyes. Mal grabbed the binder with the incident reports, and quickly flipped through the pages. Nothing leaped out at him, so without further ado, he nodded at Evan, then left the command HQ room and started his patrol.

As he was walking the third floor, out of force of habit, he tested his ear bud, only to realize he'd left the bud in its box back in the HQ room. "Shit!" he growled.

He turned around and walked briskly back down the long corridor to the fire exit, slammed the door open, and clattered down the stairs to the main floor. He dashed to the security wing and swiped into the HQ room, blurting, "Evan, I forgot—"

Evan was not in the room. Mal frowned, then shrugged. _Probably just in the bathroom_, he thought. However, as he made his way to the far corner, where he'd left his coffee thermos and sandwich bag (and the earbud box), he noticed one of the TV screens was blank.

Suspicion rose within him as he realized it was for the bank of cameras that covered the loading bays around the back, where he knew trucks often parked to deliver large items or pallets too bulky to easily deliver by personal courier. He tried toggling the switch to OFF then back to ON. No go. He rapped the screen, then it dawned on him that it might be the connection to the TV. Remembering his first day of training, he barged through the door in the back of the room, which opened into the banks of patch panels that were intended to give a simultaneous feed to the TV screens in the other room as well as to recorders which, if you toggled a switch on a specific TV, would capture footage for review.

In theory, Mal knew, the security people were supposed to have all the cameras recording all the time, but this just wasn't practical. Therefore, policy dictated that security personnel use their discretion for the _interior_, but the _exterior_ of the building was supposed to be constantly monitored, and recorded, twenty-four hours a day. No exceptions.

Mal began casting his eye over the maze of cables, and noticed that the ones which connected cameras 14, 15, 16 and 17 (which all covered different angles of the large loading area) were absent. He knew that meant the videos would be totally blank as long as Evan had them disconnected. He couldn't spot any loose cables, so he knew Evan had secreted them somewhere.

"Damn it!" Mal yelled.

There was no question Evan was up to something. The only question was, did he really want to get involved? Career preservation warred with his instinct to find out what was going on. Mal chewed his lip and clenched his fist, softly thumping it against his leg as he left the back room and paced in the security nerve center.

"Goddamn it, Evan's going to get my ass kicked. I'm _not _letting him drag me down with him!" Mal ground out. He had to find out what was up, and quickly.

He reached for his thermos and unscrewed the false bottom. Inside it was a small, snub-nosed revolver that could easily be hidden in his pocket or between the waistband of his pants, or for that matter, in his shoe. He'd never told anyone on the Force about his extra gun, and he'd never needed it, anyway.

It was just a .38 – no real stopping power, but better to have it than be totally defenceless. He shoved it into his suit pocket and stealthily made his way through the back corridors, making his way to the back of the hotel and trying to keep out of sight as much as possible.

As he pushed through a door that led to a hallway to the loading area, he began hearing voices echoing down from somewhere. He reached into his pocket and yanked out his .38, checking that he had bullets in the gun. He knew that there was a door to the right at the very end which exited to the loading area. Someone had apparently propped that door open, else Mal knew he wouldn't hear anyone outside. He kept his back against one wall of the hallway as he tiptoed to the end of the corridor, then turned right and came to the double doors which, he knew, exited out to the loading bay.

The reason for the door being propped open became horribly clear: Evan's leg had caught in the door! Mal tried to peek around the partly-open door, but couldn't get a clear line of sight except to see a black van parked in the middle of the loading area, its rear doors facing the hotel's large sliding ingress door for large deliveries. He did manage to get enough of a view of Eric to spot the large bruise on his head, indicating he'd been punched or hit by a blunt object.

He crouched by the door, keeping an ear out. Better to wait and see what they might do than burst in and provoke a firefight.

The men's voices echoed too much for Mal to get a directional sense of where anyone was, but what they were _saying_ proved to be very interesting.

"You've got another think coming if you think you can rip us off, Jackson!" That belonged to a menacing low voice, probably the leader.

Gary's voice, trembling slightly, answered, "I-I have no idea what happened here! You've got the jewels, for God's sake. Your guys searched Evan for them and both of us for any weapons already!"

"Yeah, and George, Yuri, and me, we're about to decide if you're still useful." The ringleader's voice paused, then seemed to go in a different direction. "Anton? What's your verdict?"

A thin, carefully controlled voice announced firmly, "Most of these are legitimate. But you have another fake bracelet here. See? They look like diamonds, but under high power, they're just highly-polished glass. Just like last time."

"God _damn_ you, Jackson! You thought you could outsmart us, huh? You figured I wouldn't make sure these were all the real deal? Think again, asshole!" Mal thought he heard a hammer being cocked.

Mal's mind quickly ran through the situation. It sounded like there was a ringleader, two armed escorts – one of them probably the driver – and the jewel inspector. Chances were the jewel guy didn't have a gun, but the other three would.

"Wait, wait!" Gary cried. "Look, whatever you owe me, just don't pay me for the fakes! I _swear_ this isn't my fault, okay? Somebody up the chain is trying to screw us all over, okay?!"

"Ha!" the ringleader laughed. "How's that _my_ problem? I'll just find another hotel with a security cop who'll run a little operation like this. _You_, I'll just shoot and throw into the ocean, and ex-football guy over there with the lump on his head – well, he'll probably get fired for having his boss _mysteriously disappearing_ on his watch, and if not that, well, company'll need a scapegoat, won't it?"

Mal knew it was now or never. Evan had already been searched, so he assumed any weapons had been taken off of him already. But maybe there was something Mal could do with Evan _himself_…

He tapped Evan's leg, the one bracing the door. The man shifted a bit, stirring awake. He lifted his head, and his eyes went wide at seeing Mal crouched near him. Mal lifted his finger to his mouth, shushing Evan. Evan began carefully looking around, apparently trying not to attract attention from anyone in the loading dock.

Mal looked around and spotted a red firefighting station just down the hall. He shoved the pistol back in his pocket, then cautiously opened the glass cabinet and removed the axe. He then tiptoed back to where Evan was lying. He had to take a risk and hope Evan wouldn't turn on him.

He hissed, "Surprise 'em somehow. Get one of them in here. I'll get 'im when his back's turned!"

Evan nodded warily, then groaned loudly and began to try and shuffle to his feet; his leg seemed to be caught by the door. Mal shifted so he was on the other side of the double doors, gripping the axe with both hands. He heard footsteps approach Evan. "Get up. Keep your hands where I can see 'em."

Evan said to the unseen man, "My leg's stuck. You're not gonna be able to do much 'till you get that door open – just saying."

"Okay, fine," an exasperated voice said.

The door holding Evan's leg swung wide open, and Mal tensed up and hefted the axe. He heard Evan stand up, then he grunted, and Mal heard a startled yell. After that, he saw two bodies fly back through the open door! He reached out, yanked the door shut (hoping it locked automatically when he did that), then slammed the flat of the axe against the stranger's back, causing him to cry out. Evan lunged for the man, peppering him with punches as his gun flew out of his hand. Mal dropped his axe and lunged for the gun, snatching it up off the floor. He quickly checked that the safety was off, then barked, "Stop or I'll fire!"

Muted thumps and yells on the other side of the doors told Mal that they had indeed locked automatically, like he'd hoped.

He quickly shifted so his back was against the hallway corner, letting him cover the double doors and the now-sullen minion, who jerked away from Evan and adjusted his suit. "Hands where I can see 'em, buddy. Now open those doors! Evan, grab that axe. This guy makes one false move, you make sure he's not gonna move again."

Just then, the double doors were wrenched open, and a tall, swarthy man in a dark suit holding a gun stood across the threshold, shoving Gary away; his keychain went flying into the air. The security chief scrambled to grab up his building keys and shoved them back in his pocket. Far back by the van was prim man holding a briefcase, while next to the tall man was a slightly shorter blond-haired man, also holding a gun.

Mal saw that Gary was now standing a few feet away from the two men, whipping out a handkerchief and wiping his forehead. From the way the man seemed unafraid of Gary, he suspected Gary had gone unarmed to this meeting, or had been relieved of his weapon. Either way, that also meant Gary might not try to overpower anyone.

Mal barked, "Stand down now, or I give your guy here some lead and Evan'll help with your other guy. Even a .38"—he waggled the pistol, then tossed it to Evan—"will do some damage if it's close enough. 'Course, your guy's nine-millimeter here'd outclass that, except I've got it and not him. Plus, my buddy Evan here's got an axe. He swings it, someone loses a body part."

He pushed his gun against the brown-haired stranger's back to make his point. Evan gripped the axe menacingly and held the .38 up, as he gazed steadily at the backup henchman.

The swarthy man smirked. "You must be the other security guy. So, what is it you want? You want to bust us all, Boy Scout? I win no matter what I decide. You call this in and get us arrested, I make bail and I'm back in business minus Gary in a couple weeks. Oh, and he'll probably shitcan you for losing him his money." He paused, tapping his chin. "Or I could just knock you three all off, cut my losses, and you're gone. Gary assured me the cameras would never be on."

Mal grinned. "Are you so sure about that? The cameras?"

Uncertainty crossed the man's face. "What the hell's this? You're bluffing."

"Keep telling yourself that," retorted Mal. "I hooked the cameras back up before I came out here. They're recording _everything_. And the tape room's in a vault. You'll never be able to get rid of the evidence in time."

Evan shot Mal a sharp glance. Mal frowned back, then glared at the swarthy guy. "So let's be practical. You take your guy here, you drive off. Nobody gets hurt. Evan, me, and Gary'll forget about your little manhandling session and we'll wipe the tapes. Speaking of which, do you normally give all your business partners this kind of welcoming party?"

The ringleader faux-lightly said, "You might say we were a little exercised and wanted to make our point rather forcefully."

"I'll say!" Evan groused as he adjusted his grip on the .38.

"That's great," said Mal mockingly. "Now why don't you forcefully drive on outta here? And before you ask, I'm not gonna let you see the tapes. You're just gonna have to take my word for it that they'll be erased."

"Suppose we do this. What's stopping you from double-crossing us later?" The ringleader waved his gun menacingly.

Mal suddenly realized that for all the lines he'd crossed as a cop, he'd never once contemplated crossing the one big black line every cop had: you never went for the wrong side. That had always rankled when he thought of his father, but now…

Now he realized he was considering it.

Seriously considering it.

Overlooking a hooker and her john was one thing. Overlooking a well-oiled smuggling operation was a whole other story.

Especially if it meant becoming a part of that operation.

But Mal Fallon had no choice.

Mal snorted. "You think this'd make me look good? For starters, that .38's not legal. So there's being busted for an unregistered firearm. Then the cops'd be real interested in how I managed to miss your little get-togethers for two straight months on the job. They might even think I was in on it and just trying to throw 'em off by pretending to be the big hero.

"So yeah, I'm in it up to my neck, just like you guys," Mal said with an air of finality. "So take your briefcase and your guys, give Gary his money, and drive away."

"Sure, and he gives me another goddamn fake next week," the ringleader growled. "I'm a businessman. If I'm losing money, I gotta stop losing money."

Mal sensed he was losing the advantage. "Look, you know Gary's right about who's behind it. D'you think he'd seriously screw up what he's got here? He's got a good thing going; he works here for the next twenty-five years, collects your cash and his pension, and then sails off to Bermuda. It's his supplier. It's _gotta_ be."

The ringleader looked over at Gary, who kept his hands spread. He said, "Mal's right. Look, I haven't attacked you, okay? Dying in a firefight – that's for cops, not me or my guys. We all walk away from here, that's a win in my book. We've got a good thing going, yeah?"

Mal continued. "And you're probably in touch with the supplier, aren't you? You wouldn't've needed to bring Gary in on it unless you needed the security guys to look the other way while your smuggler uses this place as a dead drop. And that means you know who the smuggler is, and you can tell us so we can put the hurt on them."

The swarthy man seemed to be pondering for a minute. Finally, he sighed and shoved his gun back into the waistband of his pants. "Let go of George. You – your name's Mal?"

Mal nodded warily as he stepped back, lowering his gun as George stepped past his boss. He looked at Evan, who was carefully putting down his axe, letting it clatter on the floor. He kept the .38 out, but let his arm fall to his side.

"George, step on out here. No sudden moves. Yuri, Anton, get in the van." The prim man nodded, as did the apparently Russian guy. They walked to the van, and the prim man yanked the handle and let both men inside.

Mal and Evan warily stepped out into the loading bay, making a semicircle with the ringleader, Gary and George all glancing at each other. The loading bay, luckily, was covered and opened into a back alley, so unless someone was morbidly curious, the entire contretemps had passed by unnoticed by anyone.

"You may call me Andrew," said the ringleader. "I suppose now that you, Mal, are in the picture, disposing of a dead body becomes less attractive. You are, after all, a witness. So, the price of your silence would seem to be negotiable with Gary. As for me, you have a week. Bring me the smuggler with proof that Gary has not been near the jewels, and I'll consider this incident forgotten.

"My smuggler uses the hotel men's restroom as a dead drop; Gary has his men secure the jewelry and then brings the package personally to me. The smuggler never sees what's on the American end of this little operation." Andrew smirked. "Do you want this cushy little thing to continue, or do I need to think about going back to eliminating some inconvenient people?"

Gary nodded. Mal grudgingly acquiesced, and Evan just rubbed his temple.

"Fine. One week. If you haven't resolved matters to my satisfaction, I'm terminating this little operation one way or another." Andrew turned on his heel, gesturing George to follow. Gary, in his turn, got the doors unlocked and gestured Mal and Evan back inside the building.

* * *

**Author Notes:** The beginning of Mal's criminal career begins. And how will Natara Williams get her start? That's next chapter. :D

Again, acknowledgements to Ayala for helping with this chapter. :)


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is not intended for personal profit. All the Cause of Death canonical characters used in this fan fic are the property of Electronic Arts and/or other designated copyright and/or trademark holders.

**Chapter 5: The Next Step**

* * *

Back in the security room, Mal asked tightly, "So how long have you two been running your little jewelry-middleman fencing operation? You've got some amazing luck, not having had a gun pointed at you until now."

Gary had the good grace to seem embarrassed. Evan slumped in a chair, leaning his head on his hand as he placed his elbow on the long table near the TV cameras.

"About a year now. Also, to tell you the truth, Fallon, I considered bringing you in on this eventually, as a backup to Evan," Gary said.

"And since he told me he gave up a full-ride scholarship to earn some money to help his sick brother, that's why you thought he'd be the best henchman for your little scheme until things went sideways tonight," Mal concluded. "And by the way, this here is how cops usually end up busting criminals. Someone gets hurt or passed over or even just gets into a dispute, they go ratting to the cops and we swoop in, boom!"

Evan groaned. "Gary? I gotta see a doctor. I don't feel so good."

"Sit tight, buddy. I'll drop you at the hospital." To Mal, Gary said, "Evan hides the cables for the TV cameras in my office. We'll get them for you when I get the kid outta here."

"Make sure he says he got into a fight with a homeless guy when he was on his way to work," Mal pointed out. "And by the way, is this kind of armed meeting what I've gotta look forward to on a regular basis?"

"Look, this was supposed to be a low-risk, high-reward operation, all right?" Gary said reasonably. "Andrew hands me the cash when I give him the jewelry. I take my cut for Evan and me to look the other way, then the rest goes into the air vent in the men's washroom. The smuggler swaps with the jewels each week, and it's all supposed to go like clockwork. I might've been pretty active in my younger days, Fallon, but I'm not gonna get physical with a gangster if I can help it." Gary spread his hands and shrugged slightly.

"The air vent?" Mal grunted. "At least it wasn't the toilet tank where any janitor could get into it."

Evan turned pale. "I think I might've had a concussion."

"Damn it, I gotta get Evan out of here. I can't authorize any extra pay for all this hassle, but I'll give you two some of my cut from the cash I got. Mal, just do your usual patrol and just tell anyone who asks that Evan went home sick 'cause he ate something funny. We'll figure things out later.

"And figure out a camera or something for the air vent in that bathroom. I want our butts covered when the guy comes again, or if a new guy uses it. I don't like not knowing what's going on under my own damn nose," Gary declared.

"As long as I don't have to watch guys doing their business over the crapper just to keep track of the smuggler," Mal replied.

With that, the men left the room, stopped at Gary's office, got Mal the cables he needed to hook back up, and then Evan left with Gary to go to the hospital. Mal returned to the security HQ, got everything put back the way it needed to be, then dug around and found a small portable fish-eye camera with a radio transmitter; the flat digital-recorder box just needed to be plugged in somewhere, and the camera itself was about twice the size of a quarter, and could be stuck to practically any surface.

Attaching the camera to watch the area above the stalls in the bathroom was a piece of cake; he just had to slip in from the other fire door and watch for Colleen, who he could just see from that angle. She went through the door in the back of reception, which let him slip in unobserved and mount the white camera in a spot which gave a good angle of the ceiling's air vent. He'd only see someone's hands, but that'd be enough.

Inside, he'd tested the air vent grille himself, and found that with a dime and a couple of minutes of effort, he could easily loosen the two screws that held it in place. The vent itself bent at 90 degrees an inch above the ceiling and provided a perfect flat spot for someone to put a package. Mal put everything back the way it was, and went to find a place to plug the recorder in. Deciding the best way would be to tell a half-truth to Colleen, he met up with her at reception.

Colleen smiled brightly. "Hey, Mal! You're late, you know. It's two o'clock. You usually get up here around twelve-thirty or one."

Mal smiled in return. "Yeah. My partner, Evan, he got sick and I told him to just take off home. He'll square it with our boss later."

"Oh no!" Colleen's mouth turned down. "I hope he's okay."

"He should be," Mal allowed. He held up the box. "Listen, I need a favor. We think someone's moving drugs through this hotel and I've got a recorder box here. I let myself into the hotel room we think he's gonna use and put a radio transmitter camera in it."

Colleen gasped. "Is it dangerous?"

Mal shook his head. "No. I used to be a cop; usually people doing courier jobs like this don't want a firefight. If they think anything's sketchy, they'll just take off. So worst case, the SFPD just doesn't get their footage of a room used as a dead drop."

"Well, okay. Do I need to do anything?" Colleen frowned.

"If you could just let me in somewhere there's not a lot of traffic, I just need to plug this in somewhere and retrieve it every shift to transfer the video."

"Oh! That's easy," Colleen assured him. She gestured him around the counter, letting him behind the reception area. "You see the computer here? And that absolute rat's nest of cables? You could probably just hide it behind the computer here."

Mal grinned. "Perfect. Just don't tell anyone else about this, okay? We're trying to keep it all hush-hush."

"Okay!"

It was a few minutes worth of work; once that was done, the unobtrusive box, plugged into a power outlet, looked like just another piece of hardware.

Colleen grasped his arm. "Can you, y'know, take a couple of minutes?" She bit her lip.

"Well…" Mal averred.

"C'mon. You look like you could use the distraction." She winked. "You seem kinda stressed." She rubbed his shoulder, which, now that he realized it, _did_ feel pretty tense.

"Same room? 1121?"

Colleen peeked at the room bookings. She nodded. "See you there."

.oO[CoDCoD]Oo.

The next day, Gary told Mal to come in at ten. Evan was in his office and the bruise on his head looked better. "Guys, I'm sorry again for what happened last night." He planted a stack of twenties in front of Evan and another stack in front of Mal.

Evan reached out and shoved them in his suit pocket, clearly at ease with the idea.

Mal hesitated. Taking a bribe was another thing he'd absolutely drawn the line at. You just _didn't_ let someone's wealth influence you as an officer of the law.

Gary frowned. "What, not enough for you, or something?"

Mal reached out and reluctantly snatched up the money. "It's fine." He wouldn't do a thing with that cash, he promised himself. He'd just secret it away and forget about it.

Still a little heated, Gary's voice was a bit louder than usual as he continued. "So, is the camera set up?"

"Yeah. I'll pull the recordings every shift. I'll try to fast-forward through them when I'm waiting in the TV camera room. Anyone whose hands go up to the vent, we can backtrace from the timestamp to the video recording on the camera in the hallway just outside. But that won't let us catch the smuggler, though it'll tell us who he is if we want to burn him later. Can you put a GPS tracer on the money?"

Gary didn't look too pleased. "I guess. I'd rather not have him catch on, though. But he's gonna likely do the dead drop during the day, mingle with normal hotel traffic." He sighed. "Now, Evan. You wanna tell us what you want to do?"

He shifted in his seat. "I think I want out. I've got enough money I'd rather do something else. I promise, I'm not gonna tell the cops, but I didn't sign up for getting bashed on the head before I even got past a door."

"Fine. That's two weeks of notice, and I'd appreciate you coming in and doing the shifts until you're officially due to quit. Mal, you're my new sidekick. You get Evan's cut from now on, as long as you handle the dead drops and whatnot. Now get out of here and deal with the shift change."

After that, catching the smuggler was a piece of cake. Gary had gotten a GPS tracker with an altitude meter. It moved from the bathroom about twelve hours before the next regular meeting with Andrew the fence.

As soon as the elevator hit the ground floor, he and a couple of security guards detained him (Gary had told the guards Mal's story, which was that he was under suspicion for moving drugs; after securing the man in a lockable room, he waved them off and told them he'd deal with the SFPD himself). The man turned out to be an Algerian who'd been pilfering occasionally to resell the real jewels privately.

Andrew, for his part, had grinned quite nastily upon finding out the smuggler had been successfully picked up earlier that day when Mal presented him; Gary had wisely stayed away from _that_ meeting. The fence's goons bundled the Algerian into the van, after which he tossed an envelope on the floor of the loading bay. "For your trouble. You see what happens to loyal people and to double-crossers. Don't be a double-crosser."

Mal ripped open the envelope; Andrew had deigned to give them extra money. In the end, he and Gary split it 50/50 and agreed not to look gift horses in mouths.

.oO[CoDCoD]Oo.

Natara Williams got off the plane in San Francisco, and the first thing she noticed was the lack of humidity on the West Coast. The next thing she noticed was that people seemed to feel more relaxed. They walked more slowly than she was used to; she found herself overtaking people regularly, almost fairly whipping past people as she threaded her way to the luggage pick-up area.

There, she had to wait a few moments until bag after bag started to move past her on the conveyor. She found her luggage, and made a note to herself to double-check the shipping depot for her parcels so she could get them into storage after she got a car.

The information desk at the airport yielded the names of some cheap motels in San Mateo, and she left in a taxi, ending up at the nondescript motel that looked like a faded relic from the Route 66 era of motor transport in the USA. She paid the driver, then checked in and got a room for a week. The room she was in had the barest of essentials: a bed, an old TV, and a washroom. At least the bed wasn't lumpy. She looked out the window; it was late evening, and the sun would go down in another hour.

Blaire had been good as his word, and a nice fat check had landed in Natara's mailbox three weeks after she'd resigned; she promptly deposited it, then gave notice to her landlord, spent another week finalizing her moving plans, then bought her plane ticket. That said, the money wouldn't last forever and she was determined not to have to run to Neha or her father for more.

Natara sighed; it had been a long day of travelling, and she still wasn't quite used to the time zone difference. She would get an early night tonight, then work on her future tomorrow.

.oO[CoDCoD]Oo.

Apartment: check.

Parcels to be delivered to said apartment: check.

Car: maybe.

Job: working on it.

A few days later, Natara regarded her to-do list as she sat in a coffee shop, her laptop open in front of her, and a steaming mug off to her side at the table. She circled the "Job" line on her piece of paper several times. What was an FBI profiler to do if she couldn't get a job in law enforcement? There had to be something that could use those skills, although not quite in the same way.

At least getting an apartment in Berkeley, having had the cash to put up the necessary deposit and first month's rent, had been a piece of cake. And being near rapid transit let her avoid needing to worry about a car – yet.

With a sigh, she returned to her laptop and cruised the online help-wanted ads. Nothing seemed particularly attractive, until – wait. She peered at the screen again. An import-export business in 345 California Center wanted a specialist in preparing customs documentation. She grinned and thought, _if anyone knows paperwork and government bureaucracy, it's an FBI agent._ She had her resume prepared already, so in just a few minutes she had a cover letter ready to go. She sent both in to the e-mail address of the firm, called EK Enterprises.

After a few more minutes looking for other jobs that weren't basically minimum wage data-entry, she gave up, shut her laptop lid, and relaxed for a little while, sipping her coffee and surveying the people of San Francisco.

The next day, while she was busy setting up her new apartment, which was on the ground floor of a three-storey walkup, Natara's laptop bleeped, notifying her of an e-mail. To her surprise, the company wanted to interview her! She was told to come the next day at ten-thirty in the morning.

.oO[CoDCoD]Oo.

The imposing structure of 345 California Center loomed above Natara as she walked through the entrance and made her way to the elevators. She was due to meet a man named Claudio Alvarez, and from the quick research she'd done before going in, he was the owner of the company, which was a six-person firm, not including him. EK Enterprises appeared to be primarily a customs broker, given the small size of the company.

She swept in through the glass double doors and approached the receptionist. "Hi. I have an interview with Mr. Alvarez. Is he here?"

The young woman smiled and said, "Yes, he is. If you'll just take a seat in the waiting area there, I'll let him know you've arrived." She got out from behind the reception area and walked over to the man seated at a large desk in the open-air office back near the only door along the rear (she thought of it as the rear, in any event) wall.

Natara recognized the man from his picture on the company website. He was a dark-skinned man in his early 40s. She spotted one vacant desk in the corner, by the bank of windows which looked out over the streets of San Francisco. If she got the job, she'd have a lovely view every day.

The receptionist was walking back over to the waiting area, and the man got up from his desk. He looked up and saw Natara as he walked over. He smiled and extended his hand, which Natara shook as she stood up. His voice was deep and mellifluous as he said, "Ms. Williams? Please, come with me to the meeting room."

He escorted her to the one room visible in the office, a glassed-off meeting area which they entered through a door. Alvarez gestured Natara to a seat, then shut the door and took a seat near her.

"So, Ms. Williams. What do you think of the company so far?" He smiled disarmingly and leaned back.

Natara had already looked over the office, but she purposely shifted in her chair and cast another practiced eye over the office area through the glass. She turned back to Alvarez and said, "An interesting layout. Certainly quite different from the FBI's cubicle farms."

"Yes, you have that on your resume, which I've got here with me." Alvarez paused, then looked down at the paper briefly. "You worked with them for nearly six years. You have a degree in psychology. You were obviously an expert in the human side of things over there. What made you decide to change career paths?" He peered at her intently.

Natara took a deep, steadying breath. _Apparent honesty_, she kept repeating to herself. She knew, from long experience, that most suspects gave themselves away so easily; the best, the most challenging, were the ones who didn't try to put one over on their interrogators. They just made sure to so carefully shade their statements that you couldn't tell if they were lying or not.

So she, in all apparent candor, replied, "I felt it was time for me to step back from being around the high-pressure environment of studying the worst that humanity has to put on offer. I would rather now focus on a career that still uses my skills – mainly, the soft skills of navigating governmental bureaucracies – without the attendant danger or need to deal with criminals who could give you nightmares even if you weren't one of their victims."

Alvarez whistled. "Don't pull your punches, do you?" He pushed the resume away from him and folded his hands, resting them on the table. "So you see yourself as an asset to this company in the rather dry business of customs brokerage and navigating the treacherous waters of the Department of Commerce?"

Natara let out a chuckle. "I admit it seems a little odd for an ex-FBI person to seek boredom, but I'll take it over a shootout any day." (Careful! She didn't want to give away her relationship with Shawn Mallory.)

"Fair enough, Ms. Williams. Now, keeping in mind that some aspects of importing and exporting goods can be a bit troublesome, I'm particularly looking for someone who has flexibility, intelligence and self-direction – that is, they don't need me holding their hand every step of the documentation process." Alvarez pursed his lips. "You seem to have those qualities. So why don't I skip the rest of this ring-around-the-posey and say, 'you're hired'?" He stuck his hand out.

Natara grinned. "Fine by me, Mr. Alvarez!" She shook hands enthusiastically, only barely containing her mingled excitement and relief at landing a job so quickly.

"All right, then. We can't pay you as much as you may have made in the FBI, especially if you were in the higher civil service grades, but rest assured, you'll be paid well enough to live where you choose in San Francisco. Medical, dental – all that's included. You'll start as soon as possible, preferably tomorrow, but I can wait a day or two if you need to take care of any last-minute details, since I judge from your previous location you were, until recently, employed on the East Coast."

"Tomorrow is perfect," said Natara.

Alvarez got up, with Natara following suit. "Your desk is the empty one by the corner. I'll introduce you around properly tomorrow. There's already a computer there, but if you have any problems with it let the receptionist know. She's actually quite the computer wizard.

"So, tomorrow at nine in the morning. See you later. Ms. Williams."

Natara grinned and took her leave. As she left the elevator, she nearly bumped into a tall, brown-haired, fairly good-looking man. He barely noticed her, seemingly preoccupied with something, and Natara quickly apologized, thpugh she didn't think he heard her. She made her way out of the building, and headed back to the train which would take her over the bridge to Berkeley, and back to her apartment. At least now she wouldn't have to go cap in hand to her father for money!

As Natara sat in the BART train, she looked out the window as the train zipped into the tunnels under Berkeley. The sudden shift from light to dark felt like her life: one moment, she was in the thrill of the action, taking down suspects and getting inside their heads, and the next, she was going to be preparing report after report after mind-numbing report.

It was like FBI paperwork without any of the upside. _Was this it?_ Natara wondered. _Twenty-five or so years of her life devoted to never-ending mundanity?_

The train slowed to its stop, and Natara got out of her seat and made her way to the exit, her feet feeling like lead weights had been attached to them.

* * *

Author Notes: Hope y'all readers are still interested! :) Thanks again to Ayala for help on this chapter.


End file.
